“She said that, on the second night after the retreat had passed through the village, she went to a distant outhouse and there found this man lying sick and burning with fever, stripped to his underclothing, with his head roughly bandaged. He was dirty and bloodstained and his clothes were bedaubed with mud and weeds as though he had been in the river. She contrived to carry him home with the old man’s help, washed his wounds and nursed him as best she might. The farm is a couple of kilometres distant from the village itself, and she had no one whom she could send for assistance. At first, she said, the man had raved in French about the incidents of the battle, but afterwards he had fallen into a heavy stupor, from which she could not rouse him. When seen by the curé and by the commissaire he lay inert, breathing heavily and unconscious.
“She showed the clothing in which she had found him — a vest, under-pants, socks, and shirt of regulation army pattern, very much stained and torn. No uniform; no boots; no identity disc; no papers. It seemed evident that he had been in the retreat and had been obliged to swim across the river in making his way back from the front line — this would account for the abandoning of his boots, uniform and kit. He seemed to be a man of some thirty-five or forty years of age, and when first seen by the authorities, he had a dark beard of about a week’s growth.”
“Then he had been clean-shaven?”
“It would seem so, milord. A doctor from the town was round to go out and see him, but he could only say that it appeared to be a severe case of injury to the brain from the wound in the head. He advised ameliorative measures. He was only a young student of small experience, incapacitated from the Army by reason of frail health. He has since died.
“It was at first supposed that they had only to wait till the man came to himself to learn who he was. But when, after three more weeks of coma, he slowly regained consciousness, it was found that his memory, and, for some time, his speech also, was gone. Gradually, the speech was regained, though for some time he could express himself only in a thick mumbling manner, with many hesitations. It seemed that there were injuries to the locutory centres in the brain. When he was well enough to understand and make himself understood, he was, naturally, interrogated. His replies were simply that his mind was a blank. He remembered nothing of his past — but nothing. He did not know his name, or his place of origin; he had no recollection of the war. For him, his life began in the farmhouse at C — y.”
M. Rozier paused impressively, while Wimsey registered amazement.
“Well, milord, you will understand that it was necessary to report the case at once to the Army authorities. He was seen by a number of officers, none of whom could recognise him, and his portrait and measurements were circulated without result. It was thought at first that he might be an Englishman — or even a Boche — and that, you understand, was not agreeable. It was stated, however, that when Suzanne first found him, he had deliriously muttered in French, and the clothes found upon him were undoubtedly French also. Nevertheless, his description was issued to the British Army, again without result, and, when the Armistice was signed, inquiries were extended to Germany. But they knew nothing of him there. Naturally, these inquiries took some time, for the Germans had a revolution, as you know, and everything was much disordered. In the meanwhile, the man had to live somewhere. He was taken to hospital — to several hospitals — and examined by psychologists, but they could make nothing of him. They tried — you understand, milord — to set traps for him. They suddenly shouted words of command at him in English, French and German, thinking that he might display an automatic reaction. But it was to no purpose. He seemed to have forgotten the war.”
“Lucky devil!” said Wimsey, with feeling.
“Je suis de votre avis. Nevertheless, a reaction of some kind would have been satisfying. Time passed, and he became no better. They sent him back to us. Now you know, milord, that it is impossible to repatriate a man who has no nationality. No country will receive him. Nobody wanted this unfortunate man except Suzanne Legros and her bon-papa. They needed a man to work on the farm and this fellow, though he had lost his memory, had recovered his physical strength and was well-suited for manual labour. Moreover, the girl had taken a fancy to him. You know how it is with women. When they have nursed a man, he is to them in a manner their child. Old Pierre Legros asked leave to adopt this man as his son. There were difficulties—que voulez vous? But, enfin, since something had to be done with the man, and he was quiet and well-behaved and no trouble, the consent was obtained. He was adopted under the name of Jean Legros and papers of identity were made out for him. The neighbours began to be accustomed to him. There was a man — a fellow who had thought of marrying Suzanne — who was his enemy and called him sale Boche—but Jean knocked him down one evening in the estaminet and after that there was no more heard of the word Boche. Then, after a few years it became known that Suzanne had the wish to marry him. The old curé opposed the match — he said it was not known but that the man was married already. But the old curé died. The new one knew little of the circumstances. Besides, Suzanne had already thrown her bonnet over the windmill. Human nature, milord, is human nature. The civil authorities washed their hands of the matter; it was better to regularise the position. So Suzanne Legros wedded this Jean, and their eldest son is now nine years of age. Since that time there has been no trouble — only Jean still remembers nothing of his origin.”
“You said in your letter,” said Wimsey, “that Jean had now disappeared.”
“Since five months, milord. It is said that he is in Belgium, buying pigs, cattle, or I know not what. But he has not written, and his wife is concerned about him. You think you have some information about him?”
“Well,” said Wimsey, “we have a corpse. And we have a name. But if this Jean Legros has conducted himself in the manner you describe, then the name is not his, though the corpse may be. For the man whose name we have was in prison in 1918 and for some years afterwards.”
“Ah! then you have no further interest in Jean Legros?”
“On the contrary. An interest of the most profound. We still have the corpse.”
“A la bonne heure,” said M. Rozier cheerfully. “A corpse is always something. Have you any photograph? any measurements? any marks of identification?”
“The photograph will assuredly be of little use, since the corpse when found was four months old and the face had been much battered. Moreover, his hands had been removed at the wrists. But we have measurements and two medical reports. From the latest of these, recently received from a London expert, it appears that the scalp bears the mark of an old scar, in addition to those recently inflicted.”
“Aha! that is perhaps some confirmation. He was, then, killed by being beaten on the head, your unknown?”
“No,” said Wimsey. “All the head-injuries were inflicted after death. The expert opinion confirms that of the police-surgeon on this point.”